Chapter 16 #2
First, he lost his family, then he lost my mother.
The love of his life, gone, and he was left holding a daughter who had her eyes, her smile, her spirit.
Every day was a reminder of what he'd lost. So, he did what he knew how to do.
He built walls. He poured himself into work, and he taught me to do the same, to be strong, independent, to need no one.
To feel nothing. And I learned the lesson all too well.
My throat tightens. I can feel Dar watching me, but I can't look at her.
I'm too busy seeing my father differently, not as the distant, cold man who kept secrets, but as someone drowning in the same fear that's been strangling me.
The fear of losing someone. The fear of being left.
The fear that if you let someone in, if you love them, if you need them, they'll be taken away, and you'll be left with nothing but the unbearable weight of their absence.
The kitchen door swings open behind me, and I hear his footsteps before I hear his voice. I know the sound of his walk, confident, purposeful, the slight scrape of his boot heel against tile.
"Hey, need any help in here?" Trigger asks. "Something smells incredible."
I freeze, my back still to him, desperately trying to compose myself.
"We're just finishing up the samosas," Dar says warmly, but I can hear the careful note in her voice. The way she's giving me a moment.
I force myself to turn around. The moment my eyes meet his, I watch his entire expression shift. His smile falters then disappears completely. He takes a step forward, instinctively, like his body has a will of its own when it comes to me.
"Asha, what's wrong?" I can hear the genuine concern in his ask.
Everything. Nothing. Everything. Because I can see it now. Everything Dar said…it's right there in his eyes. The way he's looking at me isn't polite concern or the practiced care of someone playing a role. It's raw. It's real. He's looking at me like seeing me upset physically hurts him.
His gaze sharpens, and I watch him glance at Dar, then back to me, clearly trying to assess the situation, and I pull him by the wrist over to the pantry, unable to hear him ask me, what's wrong one more time with that gentle voice that twists me up inside.
"Did something—"
I cut off his question, rising on my toes and sealing my lips over his.
For a heartbeat, he's still, shocked, and then he's kissing me back with an intensity that steals the breath from my lungs.
His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and I melt into him.
My hands slide up, tangling in the hair just above his collar, and God, it feels good. So good.
Just like the kiss we shared days ago, when his mouth is on mine, everything floats away.
All the noise, all the fear, all the questions.
It's just me and him, and I feel safe. I feel happy.
I feel at home. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I make a sound I don't recognize, pressing closer.
His hands slide from my face to my waist, gripping, pulling me flush against him.
I can feel his heart hammering against my chest and the way his breathing has gone ragged.
The pantry smells like him, leather, soap, and something uniquely Trigger that makes me dizzy.
Then reality crashes back in. The clinking of pots and Dar's soft humming fill the air. We're not at home. We're not alone. I pull back, gasping, my forehead resting against his. His eyes are still closed, his lips parted, his hands still gripping my waist like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"I'm sorry," I breathe, blinking away the haze of yet another insanely intimate kiss with my fake husband.
His eyes snap open. His brow furrows, and I watch his face morph from confusion into something harder, colder. He drops his hands from my waist and takes a step back, the loss of his warmth immediately devastating.
"You're sorry," he repeats flatly, his jaw tight. "For what, exactly? Kissing me?"
His hands move to his hips, and his whole body goes rigid. He shuts down, and reality smacks me in the face. This is the same way he reacted after our last kiss. He pulled away, and I thought he was the one closing the door, but now I can see that wasn't it at all.
"That's it," I say. "That's why you've been mad at me."
"Who said I was mad at you?" he asks, truly confused.
"Tell me you're not hurt." I step closer, closing the distance he just created. "Tell me I didn't hurt you."
"Asha, I don't think this is the place to get into this—"
"I wanted to kiss you then." The words tumble out. "I wanted to kiss you now. And not for any other reason than I wanted to."
He stares at me, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "You wanted to kiss me?" His voice is careful.
"Yeah." My heart is in my throat. "It's one of the perks of being married. I get to kiss you anytime I want."
His eyes search mine, looking for the lie, an angle, and expecting a catch, but I hold his gaze, letting him see me. Really see me.
"How much have you had to drink?" His eyes flick past me toward the counter where I know the tequila bottle sits, still mostly full.
"Stop," I draw out, pressing my hand against his chest.
He looks back at me, jaw set, waiting. I know exactly why he thinks I'm crazy.
Hell, I am crazy. I pull him in and then push him away.
I opened up the night we kissed then made a flippant comment that made him think it was for show.
And just now, I apologized like it was a mistake.
This morning… God, this morning at yoga, pressed against him, wanting him so badly I could barely breathe, and then what happened after… I pushed again.
The man doesn't know how long I'll let him have me before I cut the cord. Before fear wins and I run. That's why I have to get this out. All of it.
"I kissed you because it felt right. Because I wanted to." My voice is steady and certain. "It was never part of keeping up the act. That kiss was real. The first one, this one, all real."
He stares at me, trying to decide if he believes me. I can see the war happening behind his eyes, the want to believe warring with the evidence of every time I've shut him out.
Then, slowly, something shifts in his expression. The corner of his mouth quirks up, just barely. "So you get to kiss me anytime you want, huh?"
A slow smile spreads across my face, matching his. "Yes," I answer, letting the coyness creep into my voice, feeling the tension shift from painful to electric.
His hand reaches for my waist, fingers spreading against my hip as he pulls me close. The move sends heat racing through my veins. Our bodies align, chest to chest, hip to hip, and I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.
"Does that work both ways, then?" His voice has dropped to that low rumble that does things to me, and his thumb traces small circles against my waist through the fabric of my shirt.
My breath catches, and suddenly, the pantry feels impossibly warm.
I can feel every inch of him pressed against me, can see the heat in his eyes, the slight flush on his cheekbones.
His eyes drop to my mouth. "Because if you let me," he murmurs, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down my spine, "I might not ever stop. "
I still can't speak. Can't think. Can only feel the rough pad of his thumb against my hip, the solid warmth of him, the way my heart is racing, the way every nerve ending in my body has come alive.
So I don't say anything. I just look at him, let him see everything I can't put into words written across my face: the want, the fear, the decision to stop running.
His mouth crashes against mine, and this kiss is different from all the others. It's not tentative or questioning. It's claiming, consuming, like he's been holding back, and finally he doesn't have to anymore. His hand tightens in my hair as he angles me right where he wants me to deepen our kiss.
I kiss him back with everything I have, my fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
His other hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me against him until there's no space left between us.
He tastes like mint and possibility, and when his tongue sweeps against mine, my knees actually go weak.
He must feel it because his arm tightens around me, holding me up, holding me to him.
I'm drowning in him, in the sensation of his mouth on mine, the way his hand has moved to cradle the back of my head, the solid strength of him surrounding me.
Everything else fades away. There's no merger, no secrets, no fear.
Just this. Just us. His lips leave mine to trail along my jaw, down to that sensitive spot just below my ear, and I gasp, my head falling back to give him better access.
"Asha," he breathes against my skin, and the way he says my name makes my stomach flip.
"Tri—" I start, but then his mouth is back on mine, and whatever I was going to say dissolves into another kiss.
I lose track of time. Of where we are. Of everything except the taste of him, the feel of him, the way he kisses me like I'm oxygen and he's been suffocating.
"Dinner is ready!" Dar's voice cuts through the haze, warm and amused, carrying clearly through the pantry door.
We break apart instantly, both of us breathing hard. Trigger's forehead drops to mine, his eyes still closed, his hand still tangled in my hair.
"Fuck," he whispers, and I almost laugh because it's exactly what I'm thinking.
"We should—" I start.
"Yeah." But he doesn't move. Neither do I.
I can still feel the ghost of his lips on mine, can still taste him. My heart is hammering, my skin flushed, and I know I must look thoroughly kissed.
"They're going to know," I murmur.
His eyes open, meeting mine, and there's heat there still but also something softer. Something that looks a lot like happiness. "Good," he says simply.
"Good?"
"Yeah." His thumb traces my swollen bottom lip, and I have to fight not to kiss him again.
"You're mine, sweetheart." His eyes search mine for an objection, and when it doesn't come, he says, "Come on.
" His hand slides down my arm to catch my fingers, lacing them with his. "Before she comes looking for us."